When a person gets to a certain point in their life making new friends and expanding their inner circle usually doesn't happen often. I have a handful of close friends that I've been through the trenches with at various times for various reasons who I would say know me better than anyone else. These people are my soul sisters...the sisters I never had in real life. Have I had close male friends? Of course! I still do, but until recently (within the last year) I've never met anyone who reached the "soul sister" status until this person.
The connection I have made with this person is quite odd because first it came completely out of the blue for both of us. It's a bit on the serendipitous side. Neither of us sought it out. It just happened! The connection was instant and quite powerful...almost as if we were being drawn together by some unseen force. The funny part about it is that I don't feel a bit uncomfortable telling him personal things about myself because he doesn't judge me. I think he sees me for who I am and he thinks that person is okay. And I feel the same way about him. We both may be damaged people, but the pain we feel is shared pain. Somehow we've found comfort in knowing each other.
I've only had that type of acceptance from so few people in my life that it feels odd and mysterious at times, but I've grown not to question it, but to embrace it for what it is...a true gift. I hate to use this word because I'm not a religious person, but I feel blessed. I know things happen for a reason and sometimes we never find out those reasons...this may be one of those times where I'm just supposed to sit back and enjoy the ride and not over analyze it and pick it apart (that's a Virgo thing to do, by the way) If something jumps we have to know how far it jumped and why it jumped and if it'll jump again.
Years ago when I was in so much emotional pain, my ego had been completely destroyed when I left Texas as an empty shell. That's all I was. I was no more than one of the walking dead when I returned to Pensacola. Now 17 years later the universe seems to want to right itself by sending a kind, gentle voice from Texas to touch those painful places in me and help fade the scars that have held me prisoner and made me believe I'm not worth very much as a human being. How do you thank someone other than just by giving them a heartfelt thank you and by being there for them when they need you? I often wonder if he has any idea what impact he has had on my overall psyche this past year. If not, I'm sure he'll get an inkling when he reads this blog post.
Yesterday, while I was sitting here I suddenly got inspired to write a poem. I know! Poetry! YUCK! Hey, you have to run with inspiration when it strikes, no matter what direction it takes you in, right? So, humor me by holding your nose and reading my heart-felt words. Mildred is really trying to heal and come home...
It's a good thing I was by myself when I wrote this poem because I cried the whole time I was writing it. Yes, I actually wrote it and didn't type it. There's something about holding a pencil that seems to stir something in me, but it's difficult to stay inspired with a snotty nose and tears dripping all over the place. Somehow, I managed to find the "right" words and finish the poem. My first draft I emailed to my "bestie" and of course, she thought it was lovely. But, I'm wondering if she thought it sucked if she would have told me to go back to the drawing board and keep working. That thought brought a smile to my face...
I was just sitting here scanning over my adult life in respect to the serious relationships I've had and well...it didn't paint a very pretty picture. It probably most resembled a Jackson Pollack masterpiece "Male and Female." Understand that and you might understand the jumbled mess inside my head. I can't say I've ever had a healthy, intimate relationship with the opposite sex. Once sex got thrown into the picture all bets came off the table. Why that is I most likely can come up with a fairly accurate answer, but at this stage in my life I'm wondering how much does it really matter. Don't we all have baggage? Some suitcases just weigh more than others.
When my last relationship ended, I put myself in what I called "time out." I guess for most people after a break up, they need time to adjust before they get back out there and throw their line back in the water to do some fishing again, but my time out has lasted 15+ years. Oh yes, you read that right. I have been celibate for 15+ years and I'll go a step further...I haven't even been on a date in that time period. Before all of you scream "WHY?" in unison, I'll give you my five cent explanation. It's rather hard to go on a date or to meet anyone if you've become a hermit. I had a rather cozy cave.
I jokingly referred to myself as a hermit on my blog over the years, but I don't know how many people actually took me seriously or knew to what extent my being an actual hermit had become a reality. I think I was really on the verge of developing agoraphobia. When someone once called me a troglodyte as an insult, I adopted the word because I liked it better than the word 'hermit". Hermit sounded too common and who likes being thought of as being common or ordinary...or normal? Certainly, not me!
Anyway, in January of 2019 my hermit days abruptly came to an end. A childhood friend, came for a visit and ended up moving in right next door to me. Martha (Linda) was the little red-headed girl who lived next door to me in Maine and we grew up together. We've known each other since we were 4 years old and did typical Mildred and Martha secret, naughty things growing up. Having Martha back in my life was a much needed wake up call. It was one that I hadn't fully realized I needed until now.
Physically, I was barely living when she arrived. I couldn't stand up for more than a few minutes without the pain being too intense for me to bear. In fact, I struggled to stand up from a sitting position and sitting was uncomfortable. Doing anything seemed like a struggle. I had fallen down the stairs and fractured my vertebrae and the recovery was very slow. Sometimes I wondered if I was ever going to recover. My legs and feet were swollen to the size of tree trunks, but not from the fall. I didn't find out until later that I had fluid around my heart. Before Martha moved here I went days without getting out of bed and I just didn't care about myself anymore. I had given up and no one was getting on my ass about it. Nobody wanted to deal with the wrath of Mildred so my family just left me alone unless it dealt with my safety like when my adult children banded together and moved my bedroom downstairs after I fell. They banded together because they expected me to give them a real hard time about it, but I fooled them when I never said a word. I knew I couldn't walk up and down the stairs and they were doing the right thing. I would have been a real bitch if I had given them a hard time about being concerned about my well-being. I'm a lot of things, but being a real bitch isn't one of them. All you assholes out there who think I'm a real bitch better keep your opinions to yourself or else Mildred will have her way with you! lol
After Martha got here, I started doing more physical things and now I can work outside all day long in the heat and humidity of Florida like I did when I was younger. In fact, I'm in better shape now than I have been in 20 or 25 years. I've lost a ton of weight and I feel good physically and mentally most of the time. And when I don't, I smoke some weed and then I feel better. When my back hurts, the weed comes out. When I have trouble sleeping, you know the drill. And when I just feel like kicking back and getting stoned, well I kick back and get stoned. What can I say? I'm a hedonist!
When a person becomes a hermit they forsake their need for other people. When I went into "time out" I went into time out all the way. I wanted to cushion myself from the world and I did a great job of it for 15+ years. Nobody came knocking until Martha rapped on my door. You see, I thought it was just going to be a visit and then she left to move to South Florida. but when she left I knew she was going to move back here even though she didn't know it at the time. It was just a feeling I had and I was okay with that feeling. It didn't put me in a panic to think about not being a hermit anymore.
And I was right! She moved here shortly after she left for South Florida. Who wants to live in South Florida with all those people anyway? (There goes that hermit in me talking!) When the house next door to me came up for rent, Martha jumped on it and moved in. What I discovered is that I'm not a hermit after all. I enjoyed having a friend to do stuff with and even when we weren't doing anything, but goofing off doing nothing we still had a good time doing it. You know why? Because we're Mildred and Martha and Martha and Mildred, that's why! We're one hell of a team!
Unfortunately, Martha moved back to Maine about a week ago. Sometimes things happen and make it so we have to make difficult decisions. Doing the right thing is rarely easy. Right now, we all live in difficult times.
I'm empty now and I'm scared. I definitely know how to be a hermit, but I don't want to be a hermit again. Is it wrong that I want someone? That I need someone? Oh, I know we're in a pandemic...blah, blah...BLAH and social distancing and all that hoopla and I have to be a hermit to some extent and yeah, I can do that. I'm good excellent at it, remember? I did it for a very long time! Geez! I thought something was wrong with me when I kept reading on other people's blogs about how blue they were about being locked down during the coronavirus. I was afraid to tell anyone that I was okay with it because I had been doing it for so long that it was just second nature to me. It was no big deal. But now, what?
My grand plan that Martha and I used laugh about was that when the pandemic was over and I felt I was back to my old running shape I was going to start hanging out....not in bars...fuck that! but I'd go to Lowe's or Home Depot in the Contractor's section and pick-up a contractor so I could get someone to help me to fix my house (you know we could work something out in trade...). I'd say, "Baby, show me your tool belt, your tools and your truck...and definitely your financial statement!" He'd probably call security on me and have me kicked out of the store. Hey, it's been awhile since I've picked someone up, but I bet I can still do it. My daughter gets aggravated whenever we go anywhere together and men flirt with me and not with her. ha! I think it's hysterical. My pheromones must be stronger than hers.
Anyway, I miss my Martha. I talk to my dogs. I talk to the birds and of course, Cecil. I talk to all the plants I planted in my backyard. I talk to myself. That's a trip. Damn it! I need a person. Maybe I should buy a mannequin or a blow-up doll. What do you think? Does anyone want to volunteer to be my person? Mildred does not bite! Much :)
One of the highlights of summer as a child was when the fair would come to town. I thought it was wonderful when I was old enough to go in a group of friends without adult supervision. Of course this meant that shenanigans were going to take place. Since my father was a firefighter my family always got free passes into the fair, but from the time I started going without adult supervision it was a rite of passage to go under the fence to get into the fair. Kids will be kids and Mildred will definitely be Mildred. That's just the way it is and always will be.
The Bangor State Fair I'm sure wasn't any different than any other state fair of that era or so I thought. There were were rides, games, food and tucked at the back of the fair were the plethora of side shows. The rides made me hurl because I have motion sickness so unless I was coerced heavily and shamed into it by my friends to go on them I avoided the rides like they were the Bubonic plague. For me, it was the side shows that always fascinated me. The weirder the better I liked them! The barkers stood outside tempting people to come inside to see the oddities or to see the half naked dancing women. Of course, there was always a line of men waiting to see those luscious dancing women. We never thought they were very luscious, but what did we know? That didn't interest us! We always just sashayed by as if we were the real hot stuff and then we'd giggle like only little girls could do.
I'd been away for a few years at drug rehab, but when I was 18 I returned home for a visit. That was when I got an eye opening experience regarding the Bangor State Fair. My brother, Brian and his significant other, Rose asked me if I wanted to join them at the fair one evening. I had been feeling rather low and needed to get out so I decided to go with them. Other than maybe running into someone I hadn't seen in years, I couldn't think of anything that could be new about the fair, but since I didn't have anything else to do I accepted their invitation. So off we went to the fair... It all seemed too familiar. The smells. The lights. The sounds. Even the faces of the people I didn't know. We walked around and I have to admit I was disappointed I didn't run into anyone I knew...not one person!
Then we came to the sideshows. The men were outside doing their usual spiel, but then one caught our attention. He was hollering something about his show being for brave men and liberated women. He looked at my brother and said that he'd let Rose and me in for free if Brian paid for his own admission. Before we knew it we were inside the huge tent standing before a stage along with maybe 30 or so other people. As I slowly looked around, I discovered Rose and I were the only women in there. As the music started, a scantily dressed dancer came out on stage and with in less than a minute she was completely naked. My mouth dropped open! Can she do that? Is that legal?
I was at the Bangor State Fair I told myself as I looked around the dimly lit tent to make sure there wasn't anyone there I knew. I thought the police were going to come busting in at any second. As the dancer made her way around the stage she crouched down into a crab walk and started offering the people along the perimeter of the stage the opportunity to sample her wares (perform oral sex on her). When she got to my brother, she said, "You want some, honey?"
My brother responded as if someone has asked him if he wanted a donut. He told her that he already had some of his own and tilted his head towards Rose. She then made her way towards me and I had this OMG look on my face that gave her my answer as I just put my hand up as sign that I was okay without "a taste." She just smiled at me and gave me a wink as she made her way around the stage. I'll never forget this older man on the other side on the stage who grabbed ahold of the cheeks of her ass and pulled her to him as he dove into her like he was at a pie eating contest. You could hear him slurping away over the music until "security" broke it up. By that time the song ended and we filed out of the tent. All I kept thinking was now everyone I grew up with will be lined up outside waiting to see me... I wanted to kick my brother because he thought it was hilarious that Rose and I had no idea what happened inside those sideshow tents. Call me naïve, but I guess I never in my wildest dreams ever imagined anything like that actually happened in Bangor Maine. Note to oneself: paybacks are hell!
I heard that the police shut that stuff down finally. I guess they weren't being paid off enough or something. Anyway, all I kept thinking about was all the times as a kid when I used to walk by those sideshows. I wonder if that sort of thing was going on then and the song that was playing that night as she "danced" is burnt into my memory for all time... Now, no matter where I am if I happen to hear that song I think of that "wild ride” at the Bangor State Fair.
I can picture every move that a man could make Getting lost in her lovin' is your first mistake Sundown you better take care If I find you been creepin' 'round my back stairs Sometimes I think it's a sin When I feel like I'm winnin' when I'm losin' again
Michael Morra aka Rockets Redglare had a personality that was larger than life itself. His mere presence filled any room he happened to enter. I met Mike many years ago before he was known as Rockets Redglare. We both had the good fortune to find our way to the same drug rehab center tucked away in the woods of Northern Maine. Our friendship formed when we discovered we had a very similar twisted sense of humor. He always called me his "Pig Sister" and he was my "Pig Brother." Somehow we extracted these terms of endearment from William Peter Blatty's, The Exorcist (the movie had yet to be made). Many people at the rehab role-played as cheap form of entertainment. We had to do something to keep our sanity or what was left of it by that time.
When I close my eyes, I can picture Mike strutting across the stage doing his rendition of Mick Jagger. The truly funny thing was that Mike did Mick Jagger better than Mick did himself. While Mike belted out Midnight Rambler, for a few minutes we, his captive audience were transported magically to someplace else...a magical place far from Kinsman Hall. Sometimes that was all we needed to get through another day. Thank you, Mike for those moments of joyful surrender. I was pleased when I find out Mike had gone on to act in several movies and was a stand-up comedian in the Lower East Side of New York City. The thought of that larger than life personality entertaining others seemed like a natural progression to me. Whether it was selling drugs or making people laugh, Mike was a natural at everything he did.
Like many friendships our friendship fell by the wayside. I don't think everyone who enters our lives is meant to go the distance. Knock! Knock! Who's there? And then they enter. They stay awhile sometimes making a lasting impression on our hearts and souls and then they leave us with memories to always cherish. Our lives had simply gone in different directions after we left rehab. For a short while, we stayed in touch and then silence. Pig Brother and Pig Sister were no more. Many years later, I watched a movie made about Mike's life. As the tears streamed down my face, I knew that we, the residents of Kinsman Hall who knew and loved Mike had gotten the best he had to give and all those years he spent after we knew him was a steady, tragic, downward spiral until Mike died from kidney and liver failure caused from a lifetime of drug and alcohol abuse.
Mike was a junkie before he was ever born. His mom was a fifteen-year-old addict who passed her addiction to her son while still in utero. They had to put methadone in his baby formula. Michael's father wasn’t any more of a positive influence than his mother. A career criminal, he was not afraid to conduct “business” (including murder) in front of his young son, and was eventually deported back to Italy after robbing a local post office. Left to support her family and a drug addiction, Mike's mother turned to prostitution for income. Mike eventually left home when his mother took up with an abusive ex-boxer, who eventually beat her to death. After his mother died, Mike changed his name to Rockets Redglare. He was a true American original and was as bright as his new name...Rockets Redglare.
Many people in and around the New York City's drug culture believed Mike was the person who killed Nancy Spungen (girlfriend of Sid Vicious of the punk rock band, The Sex Pistols) Mike was one of Sid and Nancy's local drug dealers who had been in the apartment the night Nancy was murdered while Sid was passed out elsewhere in the apartment. Whoever killed Nancy stabbed her once with Sid's knife and left her to bleed to death. The next morning, she was found dead. The roll of cash that was in the apartment the night before mysteriously turned up missing and suddenly Mike was out buying drinks for people, an act he never participated in doing before then. When asked by a close friend where he got the money, he admitted to stabbing Nancy and ripping off Sid. Whether or not that was the truth, no one will ever know for sure because the truth died with Nancy, Sid and Rockets Redglare. All else at this point is pure speculation. I'd like to believe my friend is innocent, but I know how drugs twist and deviate a person until they're unrecognizable. I just hope wherever Mike's spirit is now, it rests in the peace he never knew in life.
So how does one get properly "rubbed" in Nub City? I have to admit that being a Yankee was a definite disadvantage at times, but being fresh meat more than made up for being a Yankee. Hey, believe it or not, many Southerners are still fighting the Civil War and I definitely enjoyed enlightening them about who won that war. Yes, this Yankee had big brass balls that made riding on her broomstick a difficult undertaking.
After spending the summer in Maine, As I previously mentioned, I traveled South
with my two brothers, Jeff and Brian and Brian's family. Brian had enrolled
in a school in Northwest Florida, so instead of flying home at the end of the
summer, I hitched a ride on the family caravan going South. The August days in Maine had
already started to feel like fall, so when we arrived at our destination to find summer still alive and well, we all were happy. After settling
in, we explored what there was of a town and easily found the local swimming hole. It was
located at wayside park just outside of town on Holmes Creek. Of course,
we became the immediate center of attention. As newcomers, we were
objects of continuous scrutiny, only to be studied from afar and not approached...at least not yet. We needed to be fully vetted first before any serious mingling could happen.
We arrived at the creek in a 1969 green convertible Mustang, top down and music blasting. The Yankees had arrived! When in Rome, do as
the Romans do... so we took turns jumping off the rope swing into
the spring-fed creek. I can't adequately describe the sensation
of hitting that frigid water, but if you've ever done it, it's an
experience you'll never forget. When playtime was done, we loaded up and
left the park as pristine as when we arrived. As we sat at the park entrance waiting to turn out onto
the highway, suddenly behind us appeared a bright red Chevy Chevelle SS
with wide black racing stripes. Inside were two young Southern gents who were
obviously a little braver than all the others had been. From the backseat
of the convertible, I motioned to my brother to gun the engine and peel out as we
left. The Chevy stayed right behind us...close enough so I could see
the faces of the two guys inside. As I looked directly at them, giving
them my best "hello boys" look followed by blowing them a
kiss, I said to my family, "I wonder who these two jokers
are!" As soon as we crossed into the "city" limits and turned down the road
on which my brother lived, the two jokers disappeared into the haze of the lazy summer
heat.
I was an eighteen year old new kid on the block in this
small Southern town with a population of less than one thousand. This new
position wasn't exactly the position I had on my bucket list, but this
position definitely had its advantages. I could tell by the
inquisitive looks people gave us as they drove by my brother's place that they hadn't quite figured out who belonged with whom and what was
going on inside. This was something I was used to by now and always liked the
initial reactions I got when the truth finally came out. And the truth always
did come out...eventually! But for the time being, I was going to savor the
looks I was getting and just sit
back and let people wonder. Being the object
of speculation sometimes can have very interesting outcomes. I think it might be described best as mental foreplay. And in this case,
the outcome was not only interesting, but a lasting one as well.
My brother, Brian liked the game. He liked being admired. I laughed
when he set up his weight lifting equipment outside in the front yard next to where he kept his customized BSA motorcycle. Not long
after he started his daily workouts, the drive-byes increased. The brave ones
did walk-byes and even waved hello occasionally. We'd been there several days,
when early one evening Brian decided it was time to take a walk
"uptown." We strolled through the center of what seemed to be a
one-horse town...a post office, a grocery store named the Dixie Dandy, a
small hamburger joint named The Burger Smith, a gas station, a convenience store and of course, a real live honky-tonk on the outskirts of town called The Cat's Eye.
A group of locals
were clustered around a bench placed outside the post office. The area was
considered the town square. As we approached, the noise from the small crowd
died down in anticipation. When we reached the group, Brian stopped and we
introduced ourselves to the handful of people who seemed quite mesmerized by
our presence. We chatted long enough to show them that Yankees could be
friendly. As we left we knew we had given them plenty to talk about for
days to come.
The ice had been broken and now I was anxious to see what would
follow. In the next few days I met another female who became my first
friend in Vernon. Carol was from Miami and like me, she had found her way to Vernon
under unusual circumstances. Maybe the fact that we were outsiders was what
gave us an immediate common bond. From the moment we met, it seemed like we had
been friends forever and at our age that title came with the subtitle of
"partners in crime." We were two new females in a very small
town. That dubious distinction earned us the title of being new
meat...me, a thinly sliced, medium rare piece of roast beef riding shotgun and Carol, a slightly thicker sliced piece of brown
sugar cured ham was at the wheel of her white Duster. From the moment I met Carol I had a hunch that
our time in Vernon was going to be a learning experience for both of us.
Looking back now all I can proclaim is how right I was! Seldomly, do we meet people in life that can give their friendship without a price tag. I was fortunate to have found a friend in that one horse town who not only loved unconditionally, but also withheld making judgment calls as well. Carol was a true free spirit. Yes, she had faults and it was one of those faults that heightened the danger factor of our friendship and made our time together always an adventure.
I tend to gravitate towards the edge. It’s where I feel most comfortable. Maybe it’s the suspense, the thrill, the uncertainty of the outcome that makes teetering on the edge so appealing to me. Whatever it was, that certain something was a definite factor in what kept a smile on our faces in those days. The day I met Carol, we headed off to Panama City Beach to have some fun in the sun. The guy Carol was "with" had a friend, so the pairing off was a given. I usually don’t do prearranged dating set up by a friend, but I was bored and in dire need of some male attention, so WTF?
That trip to Panama City Beach turned out to be one that stayed with me my entire life. Donnie Arnold was the guy I was paired up with and I can't honestly say if under different circumstances he'd be someone who would have piqued my interest, but that day he had my full undivided attention. Carol and Jerry McDade "disappeared" down the beach while Donnie and I frolicked in the Gulf of Mexico and had sex for the first time right there in the warm salt water. We laughed because I lost my underwear and pictured some tourist finding them later washed up on the beach. We could picture that person trying to figure out how some female lost her panties on the beach. I should have stamped them IF FOUND, PLEASE RETURN TO OWNER (with my address in very small text.) I did, however manage to hold onto my shorts, so I didn't have to exit the water bare-assed.
We stayed overnight in a house near the beach and it wasn't until years later that I discovered that Donnie's family owned many beach properties and also a motel somewhere on Panama City Beach. I wouldn't be surprised if it was named The Dew Drop Inn or something equally redneck sounding. Looking back, I'm fairly sure that the place we stayed was owned by his family because there was no checking in process and like magic, he pulled a key out of his pocket that unlocked the front door.
Donnie and I didn't really talk that much because we were too busy doing other things. Getting to know each other didn't seem to be high on our agenda. Our midnight rodeo lasted all night and by the time morning rolled around, I felt like I had been bull riding and the bull had gotten the better of me. YEHAW! It actually hurt to walk, but I was too proud to say anything. My only request was discreetly asking Carol if she had a clean pair of underwear I could borrow since I lost mine the day before. Ordinarily, I would have gone commando, but I was so sore my shorts rubbing against me made the pain worse. We all had breakfast and then headed back to Vernon. It wasn’t until that morning while we ate breakfast that I found out that Jerry was not only married, but was married to a legendary bitch in those parts. Rumor had it that his wife, Peggy would just as soon shoot you as look at you. Yes, birds of a feather flock together and just as free spirits (aka "saucy tarts") tend to seek each other out and form alliances, the psycho bitches of the world do the same.
The next day I tried to hunt Donnie down to retrieve my ring he had slipped off my finger and had decided to hold hostage. When he removed my ring and put it on his pinkie, I assumed that he did it as a way of seeing me again. He knew I'd come looking for my ring, but when I did, I found out he had been arrested and was in jail in Chipley. Carol, a guy named Chip Coatney (he was one of the "jokers" in the red Chevy Chevelle I previously mentioned) and I drove to Chipley to get my ring. We stood outside the old jail and hollered up to Donnie on the second floor to get his attention. Chip immediately started to razz Donnie about being in jail and put his arm around me as he gave Donnie a hard time. I looked at Chip like he had lost his mind and Donnie laughed at Chip as he threw my ring out the barred window. And that was the last I ever saw of him. I never did find out why he had been arrested and to be honest, I wasn't curious enough to inquire. I just went about my merry way and figured if he was interested he'd look me up when he got out of jail. Until then I turned the page and started a new chapter.
So how do you mend a broken heart? Chin up? Chest out? One foot in front of the other? At 18, all I wanted to do was dull the enormous ache in my heart until it completely went away. For me, it was all about living in the moment and rarely saying no to anything. The crazier it was, the better I liked it. If it rattled around in my head long enough and became an actual thought and if it brought a twinkle to my eyes and a smile to my face, it definitely got done regardless of the consequences.
Going back to Maine that summer was a trip in every sense of the word. For the first couple of weeks I was there, I didn't leave my brother's house nor did I try to contact any of my old friends. Although I wanted to see all of them, I was scared to death to see any of them. When I finally worked through my fear, I boldly went to my old neighborhood...unannounced, of course. As I walked through town, everything seemed much closer to the street than what I remembered...and smaller. When I reached my old house, I stop dead in my tracks. The driveway seemed so short compared to what I remembered. Later, I was told it seemed much longer to me then because most of the time I had to crawl up it to go inside my house. Not really! But it was true that my brain was remembering things through the clouded vision of a druggie. I was always high from morning until I finally closed my eyes at night. Drugs threw off my perception of everything and everyone around me.
As I went through the process of trying to figure out what I was doing in Maine. I picked up the phone and called the drug rehab (Kinsman Hall) I had been released from only months earlier. I still had friends there and there was someone there I wanted to see that I felt I should have a conversation with and see if he'd agree to see me. It was important to me that I finally tell Stacy how much he meant to me even if he didn't feel the same way about me. I knew all outside calls would have to go through staff so I was hoping to catch a friendly face. I was glad when it was Mike Morra who took my call. What I wasn't counting on was being told to stay away from Stacy. This seemed to be the same theme from day one for Stacy and I as far as Kinsman Hall saw it. I never figured out why staff was so dead set against he and I being together but that's how it was. I was forced into accepting that when I left Kinsman Hall I'd never see Stacy again.
. When I finally came out of my self-imposed prison at my brother's house, I was told repeatedly by people how good I looked and how healthy I looked. Go figure! Two plus years of being clean will definitely do something to a person. I ate right. I got enough sleep and I wasn't high all the time and nor was I engaging in risky activities. I knew what being around my old partying friends would lead to, but I went around all of them anyway. Willpower isn't one of my strong points unless willpower is fueled by desire and determination. After all I did quit smoking cigarettes over 25 years ago while living with a chain smoker. With the right fuel I can do most anything. So needless to say my willpower flew out the door and I eased my pain in a way that seemed so familiar (like an old comfortable shoe or a great fitting pair of jeans). I scratched that itch, but I had a much bigger itch that needed scratching. I needed to get laid! I'm sure I could have rustled someone up to do that thankless task, but I held off until left Maine and returned to Florida. My scorecard remained at one in Maine. My first love was the only person I slept with while I lived in Bangor. For some reason I felt I needed to keep that record unblemished by keeping my pants on my body and avoid being horizontal around anyone tempting including him. By the time I left Maine that summer, my hormones were at a fever pitch and I was ready for some good old promiscuity. I wanted cheap, sleazy sex and I wanted it from someone who could go the distance without a lot of hoopla.
Instead of returning to Pensacola, I tagged along with my brother, Brian and his family. My brother was going to attend a heavy equipment class at a vocational school in Chipley, Florida. Being the new kid on any block is a difficult situation regardless of where that block is located. This new fishbowl I landed in was an unfamiliar rural Southern country town that could have been taken right out of the movie, Deliverance. Everywhere there were faces of strangers waiting and watching, but what they were watching and waiting for made me a little uneasy. Vernon was dubbed "Nub City" because so many residents there make limb loss insurance claims to supplement their income. In 1981 several years after I lived there Vernon was featured in a documentary highlighting the eccentricities of the people who lived there. The movie angered many residents who felt the documentary portrayed the area in a negative light. Negative light? How could blowing off your arm or foot with a shotgun for insurance money be considered negative? Shouldn't it be considered creative and ingenious instead? Oops! There goes my good old Maine sarcasm acting up again! Boys will be boys and rednecks will be rednecks and if you combine the two and get lucky what you get is something the Beatles sang about...Happiness Is A Warm Gun.
I was ready to get this show on the road and stir up this tiny fishbowl. I desperately wanted someone's finger on my trigger, so the only logical thing to do was to put checking out the local talent at the top of my list. I was confidant I could find a suitable warm gun to scratch my itch. Bang! Bang! Shoot! Shoot!
To say I was a troubled teenager would be a severe understatement. When I was 18, after spending two long years in drug rehab (Kinsman Hall), I was finally released two days before Christmas. Was I excited? Yes! I was filled with what I thought were endless possibilities. But I was more afraid than I was excited. Those two years kept me alive, but it did little else. When I hit the streets, I was armed with absolutely no tools for a drug-free and drama-free existence. How can anyone cope when they're left up to the their own faulty devices? Two years of not having to think for myself weighed heavily on me especially when I was suddenly faced with a real life filled with real problems and real decisions to make everyday. Towards the end of my two years at Kinsman Hall, I got involved with a staff member who was about ten years older than me. Oh, we had big plans of living happily ever after, but that happily ever after never happened. Bruce left the program a few months after my departure. The plan was for him to come get me in Florida and we'd start our life together. He got as far as New York where he was from and never made it any further. Denial works great for awhile and then reality sets in...Bruce and I were never going to have anything, but some sheltered memories of a relationship that was never put to the test of surviving in a life away from Kinsman Hall. I knew I made the wrong choice by getting involved with Bruce to begin with and instead of choosing with my heart, I chose with my head. If I had chosen with my heart months earlier Bruce wouldn't have been in the picture. Shortly after my departure, life slapped me in the face twice. The ferocity of the slap left me questioning everything I thought I knew. First, I lost my closest friend, Charlene. When she left rehab, she started shooting dope again. Although I knew what the writing on the wall predicted, I wasn't prepared to deal with a death...any death. Charlene died a week before her wedding. As Bruce broke the news of Charlene's death to me, I felt as if someone had reached into my chest and ripped my heart out. I could barely breathe. I could barely think. Yet with as raw as my emotions were I couldn't seem to cry. I just teetered on the edge. I just wanted the hurt to go away, but before my wound could form a scab, I found out Bruce had started using again. He, too was shooting dope, but was lying to me about it.
Another one bites the dust! There wasn't going to be any happily ever after for us. Drugs had won out again, so I tucked my tail between my legs and went off to lick my wounds. All I wanted to do and felt like I needed to do was insulate myself so no bad news could affect me again. Instead of tuning in, turning on and dropping out, I tuned out, turned off and then jumped into emotional obscurity. My first instinct was to hide and to fade far enough away so pain couldn't find me. I adopted a true fuck it attitude. What's the point of getting close to anyone when all they're going to do is break my heart? That summer was a memorable one. It changed my whole trajectory. After being away from my hometown for 3 years, I foolishly returned. My first year of faux emancipation, I spent living on the streets. I was 15 and got one hell of an education. The next two years I spent in drug rehab. Oops! That was a completely unplanned detour. I was probated there until I turned 18. I knew going "home" would put me in harm's way, but I went home anyway because like a person who needs to physically cut themselves repeatedly, I was an emotional cutter. I needed to beat myself up until the pain subsided and I was comfortably and completely numb. I thought about returning to the drug rehab from which I had just been released because I felt I had unfinished business there but I didn't return for fear of rejection. Fear paralyzed me until it won and I too started getting high again.
This is a painting I did a few years ago and gave to a dear friend (Lisa) who I’ve known just about all my life or at least as far back as I can remember. As an adult, she worked in the mental health field and my painting had a home on the wall in her office. We used to chuckle at her choice of professions because she had plenty of experience dealing with all the “case studies” from our old neighborhood as she grew up.
I think what surprised me most and touched my heart was her way of saying thank you. As a thank you she surprised me by sending me a bunch of art supplies. Now, that’s the kind of thoughtful friends to have. The figurines in the bottom of the picture were my muses who guided my hands and my thought processes during this endeavor. Now, put your thinking caps on! Who can name my 3 muses?
It all begins with Mildred seeing a meme her friend, Joyce posted on Facebook.
Mildred: I’m up for that ride!
Mildred: Let’s just say it’s been awhile since we did anything that could be considered a bad decision...together. Buckle your seatbelts I think we’re in for a roller coaster of a ride.
Joyce: I'm ready when you are
Mildred: We can start by playing a little game called “Can You Match My Crazy?”
Joyce: I guess I can't go then..ha ha ha
Mildred: I think I smell bullshit. Should I go get my wading boots?
Mildred: Hey I have a question. How come all my more memorable moments aren’t of playing sports and joining clubs and being an honor roll student and having dance lessons and going to proms and trips to the spa...did they even have spas back in the Stone Age? When I remember people it always is in reference to getting in trouble with that person and doing cool shit while we were baked. Do you remember what a zilch is? I wonder if the kids today do stuff like making a zilch. Hmmmmm food for thought and speaking of food, does McDonald’s deliver?
Joyce: I can see us at dance lessons now...ya
Mildred: We would have been wicked cunnin’ in a tutu. Hey, do ballerinas smoke weed?
Joyce: lol
FYI [for those of you who aren’t familiar with how Maineiacs [native Mainers] talk, wicked cunnin’ can be defined as “stunningly special or cute”
Mildred: Speaking of ballerinas...hold on and I’ll show you my cousin’s daughter
Mildred: Now, I know if I could have done that I would have had a better boyfriend when I was a teenager! Oh man, that was harsh lol
Mildred: It’s nice to know that someone in my family can do this, but I know for certain that doing this would have disqualified me from playing Can You Match My Crazy? And that would have been a shame since I was really good at it.
The Gangsta Bee
Mildred: Now I’ll bid you adieu and I'll go pester someone else. Love you!
Joyce: Mildred, love you too you crazy girl.
Mildred: I think I need to compose another blog post like the Gangsta Bees🐝 and feature this so my future descendants can get a feel for who I am. My way of saying, “ha ha ha, you come from the same gene pool.” Now adieu, adieu...I’m off to go learn how to dance.
I was going to write an intro for this post, but I think this post speaks for itself and needs no preface. Those people who have read my blog in the past will know to wade through the initial bullshit to come to an understanding regarding the purpose of my post. When two old friends chat online (this friendship I refer to goes back 50+ years), they don't need to make any sense. In fact, they rarely make any sense and that's the beauty of their *symbiotic relationship*. And because I'm such a sweetheart, I'll even post the definition of a symbiotic relationship for those who don't know what it is right off the top of their head. Feel honored that I share with you the beast that tickles my fancy. It's called chain yanking and witty banter! It doesn't get any better than that in my book!
Symbiotic relationships are a special type of interaction between species. Sometimes beneficial, sometimes harmful, these relationships are essential to many organisms and ecosystems, and they provide a balance that can only be achieved by working together.
The cast of characters:
J - a close female friend and partner in crime since my unruly days of yesteryear
M - my BFF and a person who is all the things I'm not and that's why we gel
E - some random dude that's a friend of J
K - yours truly "J", started my engine by posting the following video on her Facebook page with her sincere commentary stating that WE ARE THE WORST SPECIES ON THE PLANET!!!! (yes, it was in caps so it jumped out and screamed at me to yank her chain a little.) "E" who enters into the mix towards the end of the chat is "J's" Facebook sparring partner. Since they became Facebook friends, I don't think they've ever agreed on anything. Another symbiotic relationship in the making, but not nearly as deeply rooted as mine is with "J."
K:
Some things never change. Crazy as a loon and I don't care what anyone thinks
of me. Hey, if M,
drops by here tell her you haven't seen me but you heard me buzzing.
K: This
lovely chat we've had and a picture of the decubitus on my ass should keep
everyone happy for a while. And of course, I’ll give credit where credit is
due.
K: Uh
oh! We have company! I had better behave myself (you know how well that usually
works out)
E: Yea, it was all good until we
discovered words like: disposable, no deposit/no return, plastic, Styrofoam,
bic lighters, disposable bags, razors, diapers, throw it away not caring where
it goes...
K: They say a picture a picture is
worth a thousand words. Okay, I'm off to the next hive now. You two play nicely
or else, I'll be back, and you know what that means! Shock collars for
everyone!
K: Oh J, you weren't supposed to tell him where
my wound is. Now, I'm embarrassed. Instead of being yellow and black like a
good gangsta bee, I'm red and black. I’m a mess!
I bet you thought you were viewing the
surface of the moon. Well folks,
this is my "moon" and it has Hairy Ass Rot!
My Gangsta Bees look like fucking termites. Oh well! It's the thought that counts and on that note as promised threatened, here's a picture of my lovely ass rot! Wow! I have hair on my ass! Where the hell did that come from? I guess that's what old women are suppossed to do. [They don't hand out booklets about the finer points of growing old, so I'm pretty clueless as what to expect] As our locks grow thin, hair starts to sprout everywhere it shouldn't...faces and asses are a favorite spot. How charming is that picture? Tell me, how is one supposed to age gracefully when you have hairy ass rot going on? I can hardly wait for the next thing to short circuit or fall apart. Perhaps my mind will go next and then I simply wont care what I look like or how I feel.
